


On the Sixth of January

by SherlockianDinosaur



Series: The Holmes Brothers are Perfect [3]
Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: All of that, Angst, Character Death, Drug Use, Fluff, Fluff and Angst, Gen, Implied/Referenced Character Death, Kid Mycroft, Kid Sherlock, Mycroft is a Softie, Mycroft is a dick, Retirement
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-01-07
Updated: 2016-01-07
Packaged: 2018-05-12 11:45:32
Rating: General Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 2,480
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/5664931
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/SherlockianDinosaur/pseuds/SherlockianDinosaur
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Sherlock Holmes endures ten birthdays, from birth to death. </p><p>"Mycroft's father stepped in through the door, Sherlock in his arms. He was asleep. Having tasted cold and screamed through tears, Sherlock slept with a new understanding of what it meant to be warm. "</p>
            </blockquote>





	On the Sixth of January

**Author's Note:**

> I'd hoped to get this out ON 6 Jan, but I was a touch late. Still, Enjoy!
> 
> Special thanks to Simply_Isn't_On and my mate Allie for doing edits. :)

**1978 — Zero.**

Mycroft sat in the chair at his mother’s bedside. At seven years old he already scoffed at the term _miracle_ but he knew better than to correct the nurse checking Mummy’s vitals.

“Your mum will wake up soon,” she assured.

Mycroft nodded.

His father stepped in through the door, Sherlock in his arms. He was asleep. Having tasted cold and screamed through tears, Sherlock slept with a new understanding of what it meant to be warm.

 

**1983 — Five.**

Sherlock adjusted his shoulders again, trying to keep his violin from falling forward. His tutor had offered him a shoulder rest the day before, but he was determined to succeed without. He tried the scale again.

“Flat, Sherlock. You’d think Mummy could afford a better violinist,” Mycroft said from the doorway.

Sherlock refused to look his direction. Half a dozen insults crossed his mind, but he was too afraid of Mummy overhearing to say them. “Well… She’s- You’re not any better at it,” he said instead.

Mycroft snorted.

“Go away.” Again, Sherlock adjusted his shoulders and started a scale. _Sharp._ He tried again. Behind him, he could hear Mycroft step into his room and sit on the edge of the bed. If Sherlock had possessed the power to push him out, he would have done.

“Does it still hurt?” Mycroft asked Sherlock’s back.

Sherlock shook his head and tried not to look down to the fresh cast on his leg. The neon green was already smudged with mud from where he’d fallen in the car park outside the hospital.

“Dad’s got dinner in the oven. Should be ready soon.”

Sherlock began the scale again. _Sharp._

“And there’s cake.”

 _Flat_.

“Oh my God, Sherlock. I’m sorry.” The confession was pained, a last resort. “I thought you were smart enough to know better. I didn’t think you’d actually do it.”

“You told me to!” The bow screeched against the strings.

“Mummy’s told you not to ride your bike on the stairs, are you stupid?”

“No.” Sherlock stole a glance over his shoulder. “Stop it, go away.”

Mycroft stayed put. He listened to Sherlock stumble through two more scales before trying again. “Are you going to let me sign it?”

“What?” Sherlock finally turned to face him, letting the instrument slip from his shoulder to his lap.

Mycroft got to his feet and grabbed a marker from Sherlock’s desk. “Your cast. You can get everyone to write their name on it. Have you seen people do it at school?”

“No.” He looked down to his broken leg, to the smudge of mud on the cast. “Why?”

“I don’t know. Tradition.” Uncapping the marker, Mycroft arched a brow. “May I?”

Sherlock nodded.

Mycroft knelt down and put pen to plaster. “I didn’t mean for you to get hurt.” It was easier to admit fault when his head was bent down over his work.

“I know.”  

Redbeard barked. From upstairs they could hear his claws scrabbling against the wood floor of the kitchen. The sound of a car door slamming on the driveway followed close behind.

“Is that Nan?”

Mycroft underlined his name and stood to peer out Sherlock’s window. A familiar white sedan sat out front. He nodded. Their grandmother would at least win back his good mood. “Come on,” he conceded, capping his pen and tossing it aside to crouch in front of his injured brother. “Hop up.”

Sherlock grinned as he climbed from his chair onto his brother’s back. He clung to Mycroft’s neck, fingers wound into the collar of his jumper as they flew down the stairs.

 

**1992 — Fourteen.**

Sherlock’s dark, lanky silhouette stood out against the snow as he plodded along beside his aging setter. He turned onto his street and flicked his cigarette into the snow. Mummy had probably beat him home. She would recognise the smell of tobacco, but trying to hide it gave the illusion that he cared; he dug a piece of gum out of his pocket.

He unhooked Redbeard’s leash at the foot of their driveway and followed his limping stride up the pavement to their front door. His father claimed the long walks were bad for Redbeard’s sore hip, but the dog had little else to look forward to and Sherlock refused to deprive him.

“Sherlock?” Mummy’s voice echoed from upstairs when he stepped in the door.

“Yeah,” he called back. Sherlock left his shoes by the door and shrugged out of his coat. A look at the clock said they only had an hour to spare before Dad pushed Nan in. Mummy was no doubt relishing the time to herself.

“Happy Birthday! There’s something for you on the table. From Mycroft.”

Sherlock rolled his eyes. Nothing Mycroft sent would ever make up for having to endure a family dinner alone.  “Okay.”

He offered Redbeard a slice of cheese from the fridge before bothering to check the table where, beside his father’s eternal mess of mail, sat a small package addressed to Sherlock Holmes. He peeled the paper — brown, dull, practical — from a hefty paperback. _Obedience to Authority_ , by Stanley Milgram. Sherlock snorted. He dropped the book and unfolded the note that had been tucked inside.

_Sherlock,_

_I read this my second year of uni for an essay and came across again it recently. I thought you might enjoy a copy. Let me know when you finish it._

_Again, I apologise for missing family dinner, though I’m not completely heartbroken over missing another evening of passive aggression between Mummy and Nan. My door is open to you if you care to visit. A look around London might do you some good._

_Happy birthday!_

_-_ _Mycroft_

 

**1997 — Twenty-One.**

Another student Sherlock scarcely knew patted him on the shoulder and told him ‘happy birthday’. He was the fifth of the night. Sherlock offered a false smile, rolled his eyes and turned down to Victor’s coffee table to measure another line.

“Did you hit this, yet?”

Sherlock looked up at the sound of Victor’s voice. He shook his head and reached for the bong. Grabbing her his lighter from the coffee table, he bent his head to take a hit.

Victor dropped onto the sofa behind him. “You get this from the London guy?” Victor asked, leaning forward to dab a finger into the coke and press it against his tongue.

Sherlock nodded, face still bent into the hit. He pulled out the slide.

“Good.”

“Yeah, it is. Quit rubbing your fingers in it.” Smoke poured from Sherlock’s nose as he spoke. He handed the bong off to a woman across the table who was lying to him about having missed the first pass.

Victor rolled his eyes. “Shut up.” He pulled his wallet from his pocket and rolled a tenner. “Did you see that thing from your brother on the table?”

“Yeah.”

Victor leaned forward to do a line. “Anything good?”

Sherlock picked up a half-rolled five from the table. “Just the annual apology for his absence,” he drawled.

“I meant the package. What’d you get?”

Rolling the five between his fingers Sherlock shrugged. “A reminder that he’s making money.”

“Jesus Christ. Shut the fuck up, you’re depressing me.”

Sherlock leaned forward with the fiver to his nose and took in a breath.

 

**2004 — Twenty-Eight.**

_“….Meanwhile, Londoners can rest more easily tonight. Police have made an arrest for the Barnet Murders this evening, bringing thirty-eight year old Brian Nabor into custody. So far, he faces charges for breaking and entering, battery, assault of an officer and six incidences of murder. Word from Scotland Yard is that the trial will take place in the coming week. On the other side of town, a small neighbourhood cat turns heads when it-”_

“Fuck you.” Sherlock shut off the television, scowling at the tiny blank screen across his studio flat. He took a drag from his cigarette and ashed into a week-old mug of tea. “Learn a thing or two about fucking human beings,” he mumbled and was immediately grateful no one was around to mock the irony.

Sherlock dragged his finger along the coke dust on the coffee table, rubbed it against his gums, and got to his feet. With just a week to change Scotland Yard’s mind, he was going to have to act fast. Stepping into his shoes and pulling his coat around his shoulders, Sherlock found himself looking down at a small, brown paper package. It wasn’t addressed, but labelled with his name in annoyingly perfect script.

_Sherlock,_

_Happy Birthday. I do actually approve of seeing you outside of hospital. My phone number and new address are attached. As always, my door is open._

_I’ll see what I can do about delaying Nabor’s trial. Until then, keep warm._

- _Mycroft_

With no mention of the money he was being refused, Sherlock tossed the note aside. He tore the paper from his flimsy package and unravelled yet another token of Mycroft’s wealth.

He stepped out of his building a moment later with his cigarette between his lips and a dark, expensive scarf looped around his neck.

 

**2011 — Thirty-Five.**

“Sherlock?”

John’s steady feet sounded up the Baker Street stairs. Eyes closed where he stretched across the sofa, he counted John’s steps until he was stood in the doorway.

“Sherlock.”

“Yes, though I do hope you move on soon. I’d thought you’d learned my name months ago.”

“You’ve got a package. No… return address.” Sherlock could hear him turning the package over in his hands. “Not even our address, just _Sherlock Holmes_.”

“What’s the date?”

“What? Ah... the sixth? Saturday.”

“Put it on the table.” He waved vaguely toward the coffee table with one hand, already delving back into his mind palace when John started up again.

“Sherlock, are you listening? It’s not even addressed. God know’s what- You remember the finger thing.”

“Of course I remember ‘the finger thing’.” Sherlock rubbed the patches pressed against his forearm. “It’s from Mycroft. It’s nothing.”

There was a pause. Sherlock opened his eyes enough to watch John drop his package onto the coffee table and recede into the kitchen. He heard the kettle being filled, flipped on, and brought to a screaming boil. John poured two cups and left one on the coffee table. His armchair creaked and his laptop clicked open a moment later.

“What’s with the patches, then. Case?”

Sherlock hummed. “Two men found dead in a locked flat. We’re leaving in twenty minutes — Lestrade should be on the scene by then.”

“Right. Good. Glad I asked.”

“I texted you.”

“Mm. No you didn’t.”

Sherlock opened his eyes again. He furrowed his brow, but shrugged it off a moment later. “I meant to.”

 

**2021 — Forty-Five.**

Sherlock leaned into his microscope, nimble fingers on the dials. He heard John fumbling around upstairs for his dressing gown before his heavy steps clunked down the stairs. It was apparently selfish to welcome John’s sounds back into 221b, but Sherlock relished them regardless.

“Morning.”

Sherlock hummed, eyes focussed on his work. John disappeared down the hall towards the toilet and reappeared a minute later to fill the kettle.

“So. Happy birthday.”

“Is it?”

John stilled in the corner of Sherlock’s eye, shook his head. When he was sat down with a cup of tea and a piece of toast, he tried for conversation again. “You’re up early.”

“Mycroft came by. Wanted to ‘catch me’ before his flight to Warsaw.”

“Well good on him.”

“Hardly. If I’d remembered the date I wouldn’t have answered the door.” Sherlock glanced up to see John smirk around a bite of toast. He hadn’t slept well that night, Sherlock could see it in the bags under his eyes and the jagged edges of his fingernails. Mourning was chronic, it seemed. Sherlock picked up the mug that had appeared at his side and turned back to his microscope.

“I don’t guess you’ve got plans, tonight,” John asked.

“Nope.”

“Drinks, then?”

“Obviously.”

 

 **2037 — Sixty-One.**  

_Sherlock,_

_Happy Birthday, as always. Do feel free to answer my phone calls occasionally. I’m relatively certain that any child you might ask off the street is apt to teach you how, if you can’t work it out._

_My colleagues are awestruck by your work with MI-5, granted, they’re not a difficult group to please, but I should warn you before they offer a knighthood again._

_Give Doctor Watson my best. I’ll see you next week._

_-_ _Mycroft_

The door slammed shut downstairs and Sherlock shoved the note back into the pocket of his dressing gown. He raised his violin back up to his shoulder and started on the first measures of an old sonata. His ears tuned into John’s heavy step falling on each of the seventeen stairs. “So much for the punctuality of a soldier,” he called when John reached the entryway.

“Traffic’s hell right now, with the storm. Happy birthday, though. Catherine sends her love.”

Sherlock hummed. “And Mycroft his.”

John pulled off his gloves and undid the zip on his coat. “What have we got on the docket tonight?”

“Don’t take your coat off,” Sherlock answered suddenly. “We’re going for a walk.” He tucked his violin into its case and shed his dressing gown. With barely a month left in 221b, Sherlock’s remaining evenings in London were dwindling. It was probable this would be his last opportunity to step onto Baker Street with John at his elbow, and he had every intention of taking it.

He met John’s eye and for a moment Sherlock feared he might argue. A silent understanding settled.

John nodded and tugged his gloves back over his hands. “Alright, then. A walk.”

 

 **2055 — Seventy-Nine.**  

Sherlock’s spindly legs stretched out in front of him as he watched the fire in his hearth. A frigid Sussex sun was setting beyond the window at his back, casting orange light over the short stack of opened letters on his coffee table. Well wishes from aging fans, most of them. A reminder from his pulmonologist to return for his annual check-up.

He sipped at expensive, aged scotch and shut his eyes. The warmth of the fire brought him to Baker Street. The once grand, reaching corridors of his mind palace were tangled, but navigable, and Sherlock endured the night wandering them. He clung to instants that had grown precious with time.

He slept with a new understanding of what it meant to be alone.

 

 **2061 — Eighty-Five.**  

The stone read ‘Sir William Sherlock Scott Holmes’. Sherlock would have scoffed at the posthumous title and cringed at the use of his full name. Three times since his death the extraneous words had been crossed out in spray paint.

Flowers sat at the base of the headstone instead, a flimsy commemoration of his passing mind. Those who had known him knew better than to leave something so trivial.

By sunset, the tombstone had earned an inscription, scratched into the granite beneath his butchered name.

_“The most human human being.”_

 


End file.
